Awakening
by Gemini Star01
Summary: During WW2, Nazi doctor Josef Mengele conducted experiments on identical twins. Alfred and Matthew, taken as prisoners of war, were delivered to his program. A rescue is on its way, but it won’t be soon enough to stop the nightmares...
1. Chapter 1

**IMPORTANT: **Okay, so, you know how most of my stories are fun action-adventures, dramatic at times but overall light-hearted and fun? This story is not like that. This story was born from a request on the kink meme for something involving America, Canada and the Nazi doctor Josef Mengele, who was known for experimenting on twins during the Holocaust. Having a morbid fascination with this period and a deep respect for history, I opted to take a fairly realistic approach. I, personally, am quite happy with the results, but I know that they're not for everyone. In other words…

**Warnings: **This story contains frank descriptions of violence, torture, starvation, death and just general inhumanity. It is likely to cause some discomfort, at the very least, somewhere along the way. Reader discretion is advised. Don't say I didn't warn you.

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing involving Hetalia. Thank you and enjoy._

**Awakening**

**Chapter One**

January 27th, 1945 – the Soviet Red Army finally liberated the concentration camp known as Auschwitz-Birkenau.

Ivan Braginski was not unused to the brutality that humankind was apt to heap on one another. He himself had been subjected to it numerous times over the centuries. It haunted his nightmares and fed the insanity that seemed to be constantly gnawing at the base of his brain. He was no stranger to the horrors of the creature known as man.

But even he was sickened by what they found there.

The camp radiated death, destruction and despair before he even set foot inside the gate. The prisoners who were evacuated were little more than skeletons with skin barely clinging to their weakened frames. Many had to be carried. All needed medical attention.

And then, there were the bodies.

Ivan had heard the stories, same as the rest of the Allies. There was once an oven here, a great factory of towering chimneys and putrid smoke. The guards here had torn the building down as his army had closed in, spiriting the equipment away to be used elsewhere. Now he stood among the ruined bricks and gazed out at the hastily-constructed mass graves.

Many of his men had been unable to take the horror, breaking down, screaming, spilling the contents their stomachs across the blood-stained ground.

Ivan did none of these things. But he felt quite numb.

"Braginski, sir?"

Ivan's violet eyes traced around to the young soldier, who was addressing him with a nervous twitch not unlike Latvia. "Yes, comrade?"

"I-I think you'll want to see this."

The soldier led Ivan to a small building on the edge of the camp, one of several vaguely medical-looking facilities in the general area of the camp. The door was hanging open, its knob broken off, presumably by the barrel of a gun. Inside, the building was sterile, white and clean – a laboratory, filled with marble-top tables, cleaned-out record cabinets and bodies.

"It l-looks like they d-didn't have time to g-get rid of these," said the solider, who looked like he was about to vomit. In the main room, there were six bodies, grouped into pairs. All were clearly dead, abandoned in the middle of various ghastly surgeries.

Ivan leaned close to the nearest set. They were a pair of young boys, with dark skin and hair – Roma children, most likely, what people called gypsies. Their chest cavities had been torn open with careful precision, the exposed soft tissue underneath left to rot away. Unlike many of the prisoners, these children had their hair. One of them almost looked healthy. Their faces were identical.

"These are twins."

"Th-they all are, sir." the soldier said, gulping. "It's horrible, i-isn't it? I-It l-looks like m-most of them w-were children."

"Most of them?" Ivan asked. All three of the pairs within his sight were prepubescent.

"Th-There's two in the b-back. P-Prisoners of war, 'far as we can tell, g-got their dog tags an-and everything. Weirdest th-thing, though. They're t-twins – like all the rest – b-but one's American and th-the other's g-got C-Canadian tags."

Ivan's head snapped up. _"Where?"_

The soldier gulped again and pointed to a back room with a trembling hand. Ivan pushed him out of the way and burst through the door.

Lying inside the room were two almost full-grown teenage boys with golden blonde hair. Silver chains dangled from their necks, their dog tags dangling against the marble table tops. They were not cut open, though their bodies clearly bore the scars of such abuse. Like everything else here, they were perfectly still.

Ivan stood beside them. He did not need to check their tags. Even without their glasses, he knew them at a glance.

"Alfred," he said, and then raised his voice when he didn't get a response. "Alfred Jones!"

Alfred did not move. Ivan turned to the other, America's brother. His twin. It took him a moment to remember the man's name. "…Matvey. Matthew. Matthew Williams."

Canada remained as still as his brother. Ivan licked his lips, drawing a glove from his hand. These boys, these North American brothers, were not dead. They could not be. Their nations were still going strong, perhaps stronger than even Ivan himself. It was simply not possible for them to be dead.

He examined their bodies with his bare hands. They were quite cold and stiff and unresponsive, no matter the stimulus. He pulled open their eyelids and searched for the telltale flow of air. He checked their arms and necks for pulses, finally pressing his ear to the center of each chest.

The brothers did not breathe. Their hearts did not beat.

But they were nations, so those things did not matter.

"Braginski?" the nervous soldier asked from the door, his voice raising into a high-pitched little squeak. "Sir?"

Ivan glanced at him, his expression drawn serious. "These two come with me."

The solider looked like he had just swallowed his own tongue and was not enjoying the taste. "E-Excuse me?"

"Dispose of the other remains as your commanding officer sees fit," Ivan said slowly, resting his hand on Alfred's shoulder. "But these two will be coming with me. Arrange for transport immediately."

"Sir, I d-don't think th-that's really hygienic or sound –"

"I said _now!_"

The soldier yelped and darted from the room, babbling the order like a startled parrot to anyone who would listen. Ivan sighed, lowering his eyes to the still unmoving forms of his allies. He wondered, briefly, what had happened to them here. What had happened to the children.

He supposed that he would have to find out after they woke.

**( - )**

Alfred Jones dreamt.

He dreamt of a battle that he didn't really remember, in a place that he couldn't truly recall. After a while, they all seemed to look the same, sound the same, smell the same. This one stood out in his memory, as indistinct as it may have been, because his brother was with him. His twin.

It seemed like so long since they'd fought together. Perhaps it was only right that they be captured together.

He dreamt of a long march, jostled from place to place by soldiers who barked German too quickly for them to understand. He dreamt of medical examinations, one after another. After the first one, he and his brother were always together. Housed together, stripped together, examined together.

The doctors, if you could call them that, seemed excited. Alfred couldn't understand why. He knew that, by their twisted standards, he and Matthew were prime specimens. But so were dozens of the men they had been captured with, and none of them were garnering quite so much attention.

He dreamt of a crowded boxcar, dark and dank, rumbling through the Polish countryside to a destination that no one knew. Some of the hundreds died while they traveled, but who – and how – no one could know. They took turns sleeping, just to be safe. Matthew always slept curled in Alfred's lap. They were like that when they arrived.

He dreamt of the crowd, surging from the boxcars through the gates of the camp to sorted and separated like animals.

He dreamt of a man in a white coat who smiled when he saw them.

He dreamt. But he couldn't wake.

_**TBC…**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own Hetalia. Please forgive me for playing with toys that are not mine_.

**Awakening**

**Chapter Two**

Arthur Kirkland has seen nations die.

He witnessed the death of his mother, Albion, and those of the Gaelic nations who had raised him. He had witnessed – and attributed to, as regularly plagued his conscience – the deaths of an untold number of native nations throughout the lands that had been his empire. He had, in his long life, seen dozens of nations disappear into the void of history.

He knew that Their Kind did not die as humans die. Their injuries could not kill them, and when they went, they would leave no body behind. A nation did not leave a corpse.

He knew this. But that didn't start his heart from seizing in his chest when he saw the golden-haired twins lying side-by-side in Russia's medical bay as cold, still and silent as the grave.

"_Mon dieu," _Francis gasped from his side. "Alfred. _Mathieu._ Are they…?"

"No," Ivan said, his voice pragmatic and cold. He was distancing himself from this room, from whatever emotions might be stir within him at his helpless allies' condition. He had to focus, for what was to come. "Though they would be if they were human, just like all the rest."

England closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He hadn't thought much of god in the last century or so, but he thanked Him now for that small fortune that saved his boys' lives. "What is it?"

"Chloroform, I suspect."

"If it's anything like the other victims," Estonia piped up helpfully from the side, where he was standing with his brothers, Russia's sisters and Poland, of all people. "The chloroform was likely injected directly into their hearts. This causes almost instantaneous blood coagulation, which leads inevitable cardiac arrest and, in humans, pretty much unavoidable death."

"But they are _not_ human," Francis said, his eyes closed in pain at the honor student's frank description. "So their hearts, they have been stopped?"

"That's right," Lithuania chimed in. His voice was considerably more soothing than either Russia or Estonia's, but the rather frightened expression on his face rather negated the effects. "And we can get them started again, but…"

"But…?"

"But without a working circulatory or respiratory system, there's no way to administer any proper anesthesia," Estonia continued in a hurry, his voice getting softer and softer as though he really didn't want to be the person to say this to England and France. "So there's a fairly high chance that they'll regain consciousness while the operation is still in progress."

"Which is why I called the two of you," Ivan picked up before either of his allies had a chance to fully process Estonia's words. "You are their family. Your presence here will calm them, at least until we are able to continue."

Arthur's head was reeling, trying to process all the information he'd just been given. He was failing miserably, because his mind was still couldn't quite comprehend that it was _his_ Alfred and Matthew laying there, his little colonies, his sweet baby boys…

He took a deep breath and held it for a ten-count before speaking again. "What do you want us to do?"

**( - )**

The first morning, Alfred and Matthew were stirred by curious pokes and prods from tiny little fingers.

It took a while to bring them around. The previous evening had been nothing but one long examination, this time lead by the white-coated man who had called them in before. After every inch of their bodies had been measured and compared, they were lead to a dark bunker. It had been past midnight, and they had collapsed into the bed as soon as it was offered, not even bothering to remove their glasses.

So, when they found themselves conscious, they were treated to one very quick glimpse of the cute little pigtailed girls who had poked them before the young pair shrieked and scurried back into the shadows of the bunker.

Alfred reacted first, sitting up so quickly that his glasses nearly fell off his nose. The children who had dared to approach their bed scrambled back, leaping into beds and under blankets as though the boogieman himself was on their heels. Matthew's movements we calmer, slower and less likely to startle anyone, but by that point, everyone had hidden themselves away.

Alfred frowned at the odd 'greeting.' He was not used to being feared, not by innocents, and he did not like it at all.

"Hey," he called, climbing out of bed. "You don't have to be afraid. We're not going to hurt you."

The children were not comforted. Alfred crouched down and offered a hand to the little girls who had approached them before, but they scurried away from him as though it bore a poisonous spider. Alfred frowned. The action stung at his heart.

Matthew slipped out of bed behind his brother, shuddering at the cold and rough concrete floor underneath his bare feet. They were in a bunker, not unlike the dozens of others that they had seen coming into the camp. These children, however, looked a bit better than the prisoners that had crowded the wire fences. They had their hair, and some were wearing normal clothes, not the pajama-like striped uniforms. Though their shoes had all been taken, other crucial items – like glasses – remained. However, they were just as sickly as all the rest; some of them even more so.

And they were in pairs. Matthew could pick out two faces in the little crowd that did not have a match, a partner, a twin. The rest were paired off into little groups of reflections, only the slightest tell-tale differences between them. The youngest of them seemed to have only recently learned to walk on their own. The oldest was less than fourteen years old.

"Alfred," he said softly. "There aren't any adults here."

"You're adults," one little girl said, her English warbling slightly.

"But no one else is. Why put us here?"

"It's because you're _zwillinge_," said her sister.

"Zwillinge?"

"Twins," they said together.

With a _bang_, the door burst open. Alfred and Matthew jumped. The children scattered, scrambling to their bunks once more. The man in the white lab coat stepped through, a smirk etched in his features. He was flanked by a half a dozen nurses, four SS guards and a bespectacled assistant carrying a clipboard, but his bright white coat and commanding demeanor drew all eyes straight to him.

"Good morning, children," he said, keeping his German slow enough that all the children could understand. "Your Uncle Mengele is here."

From the pocket of his coat, he drew a handful of hard fruit candies, which he tossed to the children on either side. The younger ones scrambled for the food, chirping their thanks like birds being fed at a public park. The older ones remains seated, and a few of them glared at 'Uncle' Mengele in disgust.

The man ignored them, smiling at the ones who came for candy the way a farmer smiles at a pig coming for slop. After a moment, he nodded to the SS guard at his side. An order was barked, and the children scurried back to their beds. The nurses and guards spread out amongst them, bearing medical equipment and false smiles.

An SS guard stormed up to Alfred, seizing him by the shoulder. "Sit."

"All right, all right," Alfred groaned, sitting on the bed. Matthew sat on the other side, his back pressed against his brother's. Another SS guard was standing in front of him, fixing both of the older twins with a glare.

"Arm," barked Alfred's guard in his broken English.

Alfred scowled. "Excuse me?"

"Your arm. Give!"

He grabbed Alfred's arm by the wrist, twisting it around until it lay palm-up. With the other hand, he jabbed a needle into the exposed flesh. Alfred yelped, "Ow!"

Matthew hissed as the action was repeated, with a bit less force, to his own limb. A few moments later and their needles had been hooked to hanging bags. They were drawing blood, and not just from them – all of the children were undergoing the same treatment, offering their arms without protest. The process was swift, efficient and almost completely silent.

'Almost' because, on the other side of the room, two tiny children were squirming and sobbing on their bed. Their arms were too small to support the needles, and so two nurses were inserting them into their necks. Though similar bruises and pinpricks ran across the pair's throats, the experience did not diminish the pain of the procedure.

"Hey…hey!" Alfred shouted when he saw this. "Stop that! Can't you see you're hurting them? They're just little kids…!"

The nurses stared at him, wide-eyed and confused. The guard at his side grabbed him by the jaw, forcing it closed with a painful _pop._ He pulled the American's face away from the squirming youngsters, dragging him down to glare directly into his eyes. "Do not speak until spoken to," he hissed. "You understand?"

Alfred growled at him. One of the children began to hiccup through his sobs.

Mengele regarded this scene with distaste, looking down his nose as Alfred as though he were an insect. He moved past him quickly enough, striding to the bed directly beside the P.o.W.'s.

"And how are you doing today," he asked with sickening sweetness, addressing one of the little pigtailed girls. Alfred could see now that one of her eyes appeared blank, covered by a milky white film. Her other eye was brown, like both of her twin's.

Mengele took her chin in his hands, lifting her head to gaze into her eyes. The girl was shaking. Her sister nibbled on her lip. The doctor ignored them both.

"Hm…not much progress here, I'm noting," he said aloud, patting her cheek and moving to her sister, who received the same examination. "And no change here either. Most interesting."

He straightened, muttering to his attendant, who scribbled the note onto his clipboard.

The process continued, with each set of twins receiving a quick examination while their blood was pulled from their bodies. After what seemed like hours, the needles were finally retracted, the blood samples were gathered up, and the nurses disappeared. The guards, however, remained, flanking Mengele as he examined the notes his assistant had taken.

After a long moment of tense silence, Mengele finally scribbled something down, ripped it off the clipboard and handed it to the head of the SS. The man read the page in a loud, booming voice – two sets of numbered pairs, from the same sequence as the serial numbers that stained every prisoner's wrists. The guards collected the subjects whose numbers were called – a set of male twins and a set of female ones, one of whom had to be carried out – and disappeared with them. Mengele wished his 'children' one last goodbye.

The door slammed shut behind him with a deafening boom.

In the back of the room, one of the smaller children – a little brown-haired boy who had no partner – burst into loud and violent tears. The girls who had first approached Alfred and Matthew leapt up and ran to him, trying to calm the younger child down. The rest of the group began to chatter amongst themselves, their words tinged with suspicion, panic and fear.

Alfred and Matthew exchanged a Look, silently thinking each other's thoughts. Matthew rose from the bed and crossed to where the little girls were trying to comfort the sobbing boy. "Are you all right?" he asked, this time in quiet, slow German.

The three children curled away from him, but not as violently as they had before. Matthew crouched down so he was at their level, smiling at them warmly. "You don't have to be afraid. My name is Matthew. And that's my brother Alfred," he pointed across the room to where the American was watching them, then turned back to the children. "What are your names?"

The little girls exchanged a Look, communicating silently the same way that Matthew and Alfred had before.

"Alyshea," said one.

"Anastasia," said the other.

"And he's Philippe," they said together, indicating the boy, who was now curled on the floor between them.

"Alyshea, Anastasia and Philippe," Matthew repeated, memorizing the names. "Now, what's wrong with Philippe? Why is he crying?"

"They took Pietro away yesterday," Anastasia explained quietly, still petting the boy's hair. "His brother. They called him just like they called Myra and Maria and Toivo and Tony today."

"Just his brother? They didn't call for both?"

"Sometimes they only take one," said Alyshea, gazing at them with her mismatched and broken eyes. Alfred suppressed a shudder.

Matthew bit the skin of his thumb worriedly. "But, they'll bring him back, won't they?"

Poor Philippe sobbed harder. Alyshea and Anastasia shook their heads as one. "If they don't bring you back tomorrow…"

"…You ain't _never_ coming back."

Philippe wailed. The other children looked away.

Alfred sighed, crossed the floor and scooped Philippe into his arms. The little boy was so surprised that he stopped crying. He clung to Alfred's shirt and stared up at the American with wide, watery green eyes.

Alfred smiled at him softly, ruffling his hair. For once, he didn't say a word. He just sat down on the bunk that he and Matthew now shared, cradled the child in his lap and rocked him. After a moment, Philippe sniffled and buried his eyes in Alfred's shoulder. He cried himself to sleep, and Alfred let him do so in silence, rubbing his back the entire time.

The gathered children seemed in awe of the sight. It had been so long since they had seen true kindness, instead of the siren's sweetness of Mengele. The older children tried to figure out Alfred's angle, but he had none. He was, to put it simply, a good person.

Matthew smiled a small smile and settled on the bed beside his brother. After a moment's hesitation, Alyshea ran to him and clambered into his lap. Anastasia joined her a moment later. The huddle of comfort and warmth only broke apart when the guards again arrived, bearing what passed for breakfast in this wicked place.

Two days passed like this. Then they came for Matthew.

_**TBC…**_

**Notes: **On the surface, Mengele's child subjects got better treatment than the other camp prisoners. They were allowed to keep their hair and sometimes even their clothes, they were not forced to work hard labor and sometimes they were even allowed to play soccer. Mengele tended to present himself to them as a caretaker or protector, calling himself 'Uncle Mengele,' bringing them candy and playing with them. It was, of course, all a trick. Even the children knew it.

Every day for the twin subjects began with the drawing of blood, mostly taken from arms. Some children, however, were too small, and had to have it drawn from the neck, which is both painful and terrifying. Then, the numbers of whatever subjects he wanted to work with were called. As you can probably imagine, having your number called in Auschwitz was never, ever a good thing.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: **__I still don't own it. I just think the formatting page looks funny without putting something between the top of the page and the title. _

**Awakening**

**Chapter Three**

The surgery was easily the most nerve-wracking, yet fascinating, experience that Arthur ever had the misfortune of suffering through.

Russia had used the dire straits of their allies (friends? cohorts? What _were_ Alfred and Mathew to these countries anyway?) to galvanize the Baltic brothers, his own sisters and even Poland, who was in bad shape himself and well-known to hate Russia unconditionally, into assisting.

Ivan was conducting the operation himself, his arms from the elbow down hidden behind the white curtain of the surgical tent. Eduard was the immediate assistant, putting his well-read, well-practiced brain to work from the opposite side. Natalia was in charge of the surgical tools, producing scalpels, clamps and razor blades at her brother's every command. Toris and Raivis were attending the two who worked over the body, whipping sweat from their brows and fixing small problems before they could become large ones. Katyusha and Feliks manned the anesthesia, preparing the equipment for when it would be needed. All Arthur could do was wait.

Francis was not even present, not for this operation. They had decided to work on Alfred first.

The surgery was bound to be traumatic, that much was inevitable. But the brief moments of life and consciousness without the connection the brothers had shared since birth – no one could predict how much that would affect them. Alfred had always been the stronger of the two…

"There," said Ivan, his voice calm and steady behind the cloth mask.

"There?" Arthur echoed, sounding pathetically desperate to his own ears. "There what?"

"His heart. It is beating now."

Ivan carefully drew his hands away, hovering above Alfred's still form. His arms were stained with blood up to the elbows. As he did the same, Eduard's crimson-smeared hands were trembling. It did nothing to soothe Arthur's frazzled nerves.

A machine off to one side, which had been silent throughout the procedure, began to beep. The noise was unsteady at first, the pulses broken and spaced much too far apart. Slowly, the rhythm began to even out. Arthur thought his own heart would stop when the beat finally became steady and sure. It was a bloody miracle.

An instant later, Alfred took a breath. It was a long, sharp gasp, as though he were breaking the surface after a harrowing dive. His eyes snapped open, as brilliant and blue as the summer sky. Russia, Estonia and the others instantly backed off. Ukraine grabbed Poland's arm.

"Alfred!" gasped Arthur.

Alfred looked at him.

And began to scream.

**( - )**

Alfred screamed when Matthew's number was called. He shouted, he raged, he fought like a wild animal, planting his body firmly between his brother and the threatening doctor. He raised such a fuss that the SS guards had to abandon the other pair that had been selected and devote all their energy to getting him under control. It was harder than they thought it would be – with the raw strength of the world's fastest-emerging superpower, it took all four just to restrain him.

Finally, Mengele stepped in himself, drawing a luger from the small of his back and striking Alfred across the temple with the butt. The blow was strong and placed with medical precision. Alfred crumpled to the ground, his glasses cracked and thrown across the room.

He was still lying there – surrounded by anxious and frightened children – when Matthew was dragged away.

Matthew was not as strong as his brother, physically, which Mengele had been disgustingly delighted to learn. The northern brother had always been gifted, if you could call it that, with a different sort of power beyond his control. He prayed that his forgettablity would serve him now, but so far, it seemed he would have no such luck.

Upon his arrival, he was almost immediately strapped to a cold marble examination table. His head, in particular, was held in place by thick leather belts across his forehead, neck and chin. His glasses had been taken and the world was little more than fuzzy mess.

Mengele was 'attending' to another patient, but Matthew was not exactly alone in the room. At the corner of his blurred vision, he could see a tiny head of brown hair. It was a familiar shade.

"Pietro?" he called softly, hoping for an answer. From the pervasive stench of formaldehyde and decay, it would not be forthcoming.

The door shrieked across the tile floor as it opened. Mengele entered, the heel of his boots clicking against the tiled floor. His assistant scurried in behind him like a mouse, shutting the door in his wake.

"Whoops," said the doctor with a chuckle. "Looks like I left this one uncovered."

He tugged a white sheet over the tiny brown head. Matthew's throat tightened painfully.

As Mengele leaned over his next patient, he continued to smile wide enough that Matthew could see it through his nearsightedness. He opened a drawer and pulled out a short metal bar with rope tied to either end.

"We're about to get started now," he said in English, with the cloying tone as a pediatrician. He pulled the Canadian's jaw open with a light squeeze and pushed the metal between his teeth, trapping his tongue underneath. "If something starts to hurt, just bite down on this. After all, we wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

After that, he switched back to German, but continued to narrate a slow pace that Matthew could understand even with his rudimentary knowledge of the language. His assistant, in addition to preparing various tools outside of Matthew's line of sight, bore a tape recorder to take down all of the doctor's notes.

"The subject," said Mengele as he pulled Matthew's eyelids wide, "has an unusual imperfection of the eyes that has resulted in a rare violet coloration. This deficiency, which is thought to have originated in Egypt, is caused by blood vessels showing through irises that have a naturally blue pigmentation. It is especially unusual given that the subject is male – the deficiency is primarily known to appear in females."

He taped the blonde's eyelids open, and almost instantly, Matthew's eyes began to water. The tape was unusually sturdy and held fast despite his efforts to close them. Despite himself, his breath began to come in ragged gasps.

"Since this is an example of a _lack_ of pigmentation, rather than the addition of extra colors, the solution is simple," Mengele continued, selecting a tool from the tray his assistant held out to him. "Returning the lost pigmentation to the iris should eliminate the deficiency entirely. A simple dye should do the trick."

Between his fingers, he held a simple dropper, filled with a deep blue liquid. Matthew barely had time to register the implications of his statement before said liquid was free of its container and falling into his helpless, exposed left eye.

From the moment it struck, it felt as though a million needles had been jabbed deep into his pupil. A scream ripped from his throat, causing Matthew to choke violently as the gag suppressed his tongue. He jerked against his bonds, but the worn belts held strong, toughened by the hundreds of others – _children!_ Matthew's mind screamed hysterically, _Poor little Alyshea!_ – who had been bound to a similar fate.

"Clearly, surface application is not going to be enough to rectify this issue," Mengele continued with a disappointed little sigh once the dropper was emptied. He discarded the tool carelessly, reaching for a syringe. "For test number two, we'll have to try a more invasive approach."

Matthew sobbed, blue-stained tears cascading down the side of his face, and cried wordlessly for a rescue. But there was no one to hear him. No one was coming. He was alone, and it was only going to get worse from here.

_**TBC…**_

**Notes:** It actually is true that violet eyes are caused by blood vessels showing through blue eyes, that it's normally found in women and is thought to have originated from Egypt. That's all known as "Alexandria's Genesis," though whether it's true or not, no one's really sure. The rest of Mengele's spiel is grade-A pseudo-scientific eugenics bullshit.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: **__I still own nothing. I just think the formatting looks funny without something between the title and the top of the page. _

**Awakening**

**Chapter Four**

"Back away!" Ivan shouted over the patient's cries, and the surgical team obeyed in an instant.

Alfred screamed like a banshee and thrashed against the cloth straps that were holding him to the table. They had been made to hold Russia, so even with America's unnatural strength, they didn't budge. But the trashing was taking its toll, splattering blood from the open wound of his operation-in-progress, and he was still screaming, screaming his brother's name over and over…

"Alfred!" Arthur gasped, diving forward. He grabbed America's head with both hands and held it still in his grip. "Stop it! Stop this immediately! You're going to hurt yourself!"

Alfred's eyes were crazed and unfocused, lost somewhere between reality and nightmares. Arthur motioned furiously for the anesthesia. Poland shoved a facemask into his hand.

"Alfred, listen to me," England begged, pressing the mask over the patient's mouth and nose with some difficulty. "Listen, boy! You're safe. You're safe, you're free, and we're doing everything we can to help you, I promise, but you have to calm down and _let_ us!"

Gasping for every breath, Alfred inadvertently pushed the drug through his system, and it soon began to take effect. His thrashing slowed to a stop. His blue eyes rolled in his head for a moment until they finally focused on England. "Are….Arthur?"

"Yes. Yes, it's me. I'm here. We're all here. You're going to be okay, Alfred."

"Iggy…"

England's heart broke. Alfred had not called him by that name, with that inflection, since he was a child. He looked so young with tears pouring down the sides of his face, so like the little boy who had run to him with scraped knees and bruised elbows.

"It hurts, Iggy," he whimpered. "It hurts so much."

Arthur swallowed, barely holding back the tears that pricked at his own eyes. "I know it does, my boy," he whispered, kissing America's forehead, which burned with fever. "Just stay strong. It will all be over soon. You're safe now. You're safe, and I'm here, and we're going to take care of you. I promise."

"Mattie…"

"Matthew's safe, too. We've got you both. He'll be with you when you wake up."

Alfred shook his head. His teary eyes glistened with an accusation: _You're lying to me, you're lying, you're lying, he's gone…_

Then his eyes rolled back as the anesthesia finally overcame him, and Alfred slipped back into blissful unconsciousness. England continued to hold onto him, his hands trembling, even as Feliks attached the equipment properly and it became clear that America would not stir again.

"Damage?" Ivan asked as he stepped back into his place.

"None," reported Eduard.

"Good. Let us continue."

Russia rolled up his sleeves and selected a tool from the tray that Belarus held out to him. Before he put it to work, he glanced to England. His expression was unusually soft for the northern nation, and it made Arthur's stomach squirm.

"I believe you are finished here, comrade," he said softly. "If you would like to go out and get some air…?"

"Yes," England said quickly, backing away. "Yes, yes, I think I will. Thank you."

He scurried out of the operating room, barely making it out the door before the tears came. He sank to the floor and buried his eyes in his hands, hoping desperately that the tears would be able to wash away the image he knew would forever be burned into his brain.

America continued to sleep.

**( - )**

Alfred didn't sleep a wink without Matthew by his side. He sat up most of the night, comforting the children who woke with nightmares and praying to every god he knew to bring his brother back safely.

First thing the following morning, barrack door was kicked open and a single prone figure was shoved back into the bunks. He stumbled over the step and fell to the ground, moaning in pain. The door slammed shut behind him, but Alfred paid it no notice, leaping to his feet. "Mattie!"

He scrambled to his fallen brother's side. The Canadian was heaving sob after dry sob, as though he had no more tears to give, keeping his hands clutched over his face. Gently, Alfred took his brother by the shoulders, guiding him to sit up. "Mattie? C'mon Mattie, speak to me."

Matthew sniffled, hiccupped slightly, and said, "Al?"

Alfred smiled. "Yeah, Matt. It's me."

Matthew clutched at nothing for a moment, grasping nothing but air until his fingers finally found their way to the folds of Alfred's shirt. He gripped his brother's arm with one hand and pulled himself close. His eyes were clenched shut, and his glasses were nowhere to be found.

"God, Matt," Alfred said, taking hold of the hand that held his arm. "What's wrong?"

"I can't…I can't see, Al."

With a small sigh – thankful, at least, that his brother was beside him once more – Alfred stood and picked Matthew up off the floor. "It's okay, Matt. I've got you. C'mon."

"Yeah, Mister Matthew," Alyshea chimed in, grabbing Canada's free hand. "It's gonna be okay, you'll see."

"Yeah, you'll see," Anastasia echoed, pulling along with her sister.

They led Matthew to his bunk, the girls curling up at the foot of the bed while Alfred knelt beside his twin. He took Matthew's face in his hands and turned it slightly to examine the damage. Both eyes were heavily swollen, the skin around them scarred with burns and small blisters. The rest of his body bore cuts and scars, but they were minor, already closing up with the nation's preternaturally quick healing time. But his eyes…

"Matt," Alfred said softly. "I need you to open your eyes for me."

Matthew whimpered. "It hurts."

"I know it does," Alfred whispered, brushing the bangs away from his brother's forehead to plant a small kiss underneath them. "I know, and I'm sorry, but I have to see."

Matthew whimpered again, but slowly forced his eyes open. The purple orbs were murky and unseeing, blinded by the chemicals they had been exposed to. One was covered by a thick blue stain that began in the center of his iris and spread messily across the white like an ink blot. The other was bleeding from a dozen small pinpricks, rendered sightless as much by blood as by the dye that lurked just beneath the surface.

Alfred's breath hitched in this throat. His grip tightened and he saw red.

At that moment, the door opened again and the SS guards – twice as many as usual this time – filed in. They flanked either side of the door and saluted as Mengele and his assistants entered behind, smiling like the cat who had just caught the canary.

"Good morning, children," he said brightly.

"You son of a bitch!"

Alfred threw himself at the doctor in a rage, his movements so sudden that his guards didn't have time to catch him. He slammed his fist into Mengele's cheek, throwing the man back against the heavy door. The nurses screamed, as did several of the children, and the SS descended on the attacker en masse. Within seconds, Alfred was restrained, snarling and snapping like a rabid dog.

Matthew jerked after his brother, hearing the sounds of the struggle and the violent curses. Alyshea and Anastasia clung to him from either side, keeping him on the bed. "Alfred?"

"You fucking bastard," Alfred snarled at Mengele, yanking violently at the arms that held him. "You lay a finger on my brother ever again and I'll kill you, I swear I will. If you weren't such a fucking coward, you'd be dead right now. You hear me? Dead!"

Mengele recovered from the attack, rubbing his now-bruised cheek and brushing off the nurses who were checking on him. He straightened his hair and smiled at the struggling prisoner of war amiably. "I'm sorry," he said in very slow English, "but my English is not so good. I'm afraid I cannot understand a word that you are saying."

"Fuck you, you son of a bitch," Alfred growled in broken German. "I'll see you rot in hell."

Mengele just chuckled again, removing Texas from Alfred's face. He leaned in close, pulling the American's eyelids open to examine his eyes. When his fingers strayed too close to his mouth, Alfred tried to bite him. Only quick reflexes got the doctor away without losing a digit.

With a sigh, Mengele straightened, ran a hand through his hair and turned to his assistant with the clipboard. "Cancel the rest of the appointments, would you please? I think I'll focus on this subject exclusively today."

Alfred growled at him. "Bring it on, bastard."

"Alfred?" Matthew called again, trying to stand, but the weight of three children – Philippe had joined the girls, and a few of the older children were hovering behind him just in case – held him down. "What are you doing? Alfred!"

"It's gonna be okay, Matt," Alfred called back, never breaking eye contact with Mengele. "Just watch out for the kids, okay?"

Matthew tried to think of something, anything he could say to stop what he knew was about to happen, but the words died in his throat. The barrack doors opened and Alfred was 'escorted' outside, only a few steps behind the smug doctor himself.

The door slammed shut with a deafening _clang_. Matthew strained his ears a moment longer, but heard nothing. He clenched his fists and lowered his head. "Al…"

Philippe turned around in his lap and hugged the teen around the waist. Matthew held onto him tightly – but not to tightly – and could almost imagine he was holding Kumajiro. It made things better. A little better.

But no matter what anyone said, he already knew: it would never be okay again.

_**TBC…**_


	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: **__I still own nothing. The formatting just looks funny without this thing up here. _

**Awakening**

**Chapter Five**

Francis had been watching over the 'sleeping' Matthew for so long that the unnatural silence was starting to make him feel ill. But even the silence was preferable to the screams that had echoed from Alfred's surgery down the hall. Francis had kept his eyes closed throughout the entire ordeal in a valiant but ultimately useless attempt to ward the sounds away, clutching Matthew's unresponsive hand with both of his own. He remained that way until long after the horrid noise had quieted and prayed to every god he could think of that the second operation would go better.

He didn't really believe that it would, but he could pray.

Twenty minutes of silence passed before another sound reached his ear, this one quieter and only audible to Francis because it was located directly outside the door. Asking for the unconscious Matthew's pardon, he went to investigate.

When he stepped out of the room, he found Arthur pacing the hall. The Englishman was muttering furiously to himself, spewing curses like a fountain and gnawing at the flesh of his own thumb like a dog on a bone. "Angleterre?"

"I want him found."

Francis blinked. "Who?"

"The bastard who did this to them," Arthur snarled, and Francis became aware that his eyes were red and the cuffs of his shirt stained with tears. "I want him found, and I want him dead, I want to murder him with my own hands!"

Francis was quiet. Though a similar rage had built within him since the moment they had seen the abused state of their former colonies, his had not been tempered by raw exposure to the pain as Arthur's had. He rested a hand on the smaller country's shoulder, giving it a light squeeze of comfort and support. "We are closing in on him, you know. With our forces closing in from both sides, any month now, he will be forced to surrender…"

"I'm not talking about Germany, Francis," Arthur said, not looking up. "I can't believe that he knows about this. You know Ludwig as well as I do, he's our neighbor. He wouldn't…_couldn't_ advocate this."

He dug his teeth deeper into the flesh of his thumb, deep enough that Francis was almost afraid he would draw blood. Green eyes swiveled away from their conversation, glaring at a spot on the far wall as though he could push it over and end this

"That bastard's done a lot of things, but he would never do something like this. Not to our boys." Francis's mouth twitched into a tiny smile at the plural possessive. "And it's not even just them. Ivan said the rest – the other bodies they found – were children. _Children_, Francis! Tortured and butchered like…like animals! No, there's no way a country, a nation, could be responsible for something like that. Not even the Kraut would stoop to something so disgusting. This was someone else. Some_thing_ else. A monster.

"I want him. I want to tear him to shreds."

With a light click, Arthur did exactly what Francis had feared – he bit through the skin of his own thumb, drawing a steady stream of blood. France tugged the limb out of England's mouth and quickly applied a handkerchief to stem the bleeding.

"Really, Angleterre," he scolded. "Self-destructive violence will not do anyone any good. Alfred and Mathieu least of all."

England glared at him, but puffy eyes made him look more like a pouting child than the fierce ruffian of his youth. "Don't lecture me, you bloody prat. This isn't the time."

"Nor is it the time for vengeance," Francis reasoned, wrapping the cloth tightly into place. "We will have our chance soon enough, once this ordeal is finally complete. But for now, we must remain strong reasonable – for their sake. You do understand that, don't you?"

Arthur clenched his hand into a fist around the knotted cloth, biting his lip. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax.

"Yes," he said finally. "Yes, of course, you're right…this time."

Before either could say anything more, the door to the operating room opened up. Lithuania stuck his head into the hallway, glancing down the opposite way before he finally laid eyes on them.

"Oh good, you're both here," he sighed, his face softening with a bedside manner that none of the others could have produced if their lives depended on it. "We've finished the procedure on Mr.…on America. We're ready to move him now, and…and we should be able to begin work on Canada within the hour."

Francis took a deep breath, tightening his grip until his well-manicured nails dug into his palm. Arthur rested a hand on his shoulder, sharing the same strength and comfort that his sometimes-opponent had imparted moments before.

"All right, mon cher," France said with determination. "Tell us what to do."

**( - )**

Alfred had barely stepped into the examination room when Mengele seized him by the hair, yanked his head forward and jabbed a syringe into the base of his spine.

Alfred yelped as the needle pierced the cartilage between his vertebrae, pushing through to the soft nerve tissue, where a burning liquid was injected. He could feel it spread almost as soon as it made contact, surging through his body with each pump of his heart. He tried to take a swing at Mengele as the needle was removed, but found he could hardly lift his arms. Seconds later, he couldn't even feel them. Within a minute, his legs gave out. He would have dropped to the ground like a sack of bricks had the SS guards not seized him by the arms and hauled him to the examination table.

"What?" he gasped as he was laid on his back, coughing at the bizarre lack of air in his lungs. "What did you do to me?"

"Quite remarkable, isn't it?" Mengele said with a smile as he divested America of his shirt as easily as though he were a doll. "A special drug of my own creation. It paralyzes all neural pathways except the autonomous nervous system and a small handful of others. It's a bit strong to use on the children, so I don't usually get much use out of it. But with your unusual circumstances, I think it's finally found its true calling. Wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred growled, but could do little else when he could neither move nor feel anything below his neck. Mengele didn't even bother with straps, having full faith that his drug would be enough. He even dismissed the guards and began to whistle a sprightly little marching tune as he prepared his equipment.

"It's a bit of a disappointment that you don't share your partner's…how you say…unusual eye color," he said, in cheery English, as he lined several bottles and syringes up on the metal counter. "But, I suppose we'll just have to try a slightly different treatment with you."

He held a clear plastic bottle within Alfred's range of sight. "Do you know what this is?"

Alfred focused on it. The label read _Mycobacterium tuberculosis._

"You and your twin seem to exhibit an unnatural hardiness," Mengele continued, dangling the bottle before him. "It's unlike anything I've ever seen before, and most intriguing. A new development of your military's, perhaps? Like in your comic books?"

Alfred remained silence, with the determination that, even if the army did have some super-special solider program in the works, he would not have squealed.

"Nothing? Well, it doesn't matter in the end, I suppose," Mengele shrugged, filling a syringe with the contents of the bottle. "I'm more curious to see how this affects you."

"You're a sick son of a bitch," Alfred spat, his voice weak as he struggled to breathe.

Mengele chuckled, swabbing the subject's forearm with alcohol in mockery of a child receiving a booster shot. Alfred felt no pain as the needle was pushed in, only a brief moment of discomfort at having something alien invading his flesh.

Whistling all the while, Mengele produced two more injections with similar-sounding labels that Alfred did not understand, both of which were applied without so much as a thought. He swabbed the rubbing alcohol away with a bit of wet gauze and checked his watch like a workman wondering when he could knock off for lunch.

"You shouldn't start showing symptoms for a couple of days," he said lightly, as though he were discussing the weather. "But I'm certainly not going to risk losing an observation chance because of a careless estimate like that. I'm sure you understand, it's all for science's sake."

He snapped his fingers in the direction of his assistant, who appeared with gleaming scalpel blade. Mengele was still smiling – like Russia, but worse, a million times worse, because this man was not damaged from hundreds of years of turmoil, he was in control of his senses – as he brushed Alfred's dog tags to the side and pressed the blade into the skin just below his collar bone.

The sick drug did its work. Alfred felt no pain. But that did not diminish the raw horror of being sliced from neck to naval, nor did it muffle the sickening sound of metal scraping against bone all the way down the length of his ribcage.

Like a true solider, he refused to cry, refused to give his torturer that satisfaction, even as two more incisions were made – one across his stomach, the other scraping the top of his ribs.

Alfred clenched his eyes as tightly as they would close. Distantly, as though it were happening to someone else, he felt fingers slide beneath the broken skin, pulling back and it away. If he opened his eyes and risked a look, he knew, he would see his own exposed bones. His own quivering lungs. His own beating heart.

"It should be quite a show, wouldn't you say?" said Mengele, and smiled as he washed his hands of the American's blood.

_**TBC…**_

**A quick note about Arthur's rant: **I'm personally of the opinion that Ludwig, like the majority of the German people, didn't have a fuzzy clue what was going on in the concentration camps. Most of them were caught up in Hitler's propaganda machine, lost in dreams of grandeur and the glory of Germanic destiny. I've heard people talk of him putting a spell on the country. Maybe that's not so far-fetched – charisma can do some damn scary things if used the wrong way.

One way or another, I just wanted to make it clear that Ludwig and (Germany in general) is, at least in my book, not responsible for the crimes committed during the Holocaust. I'd like to say that everyone who was got their just deserts, but unfortunately many – including Mengele – managed to slither away, the bastards.

**About Mengele's Experiments:** In addition to the things he did with the eyes and his seriously freakish mad-scientist creep-show displays of power, Mengele would infect subjects with deadly diseases. Generally, he would infect one twin out of a set, wait for that twin to die of the disease, and then kill the other to compare how the disease had killed the first. Alfred and Matthew are, as he says, a very _special_ case; which is probably why Al got one shot of TB and two strains of typhus.

He was also not above dissecting subjects alive. I apologize if the descriptions of such are a bit, um, raw…


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing involving Hetalia. _

**Awakening**

**Chapter Six**

Matthew woke in tears.

There was no reason for it, as the tears began even before he had taken his first breath, which was little more than a loud sob. The liquid that trickled down the side of his face was an unnatural, wash-out blue, as though a painter of oceans had cleaned his brushes in them. Unlike his brother, he neither thrashed nor screamed nor searched for escape. He just lay on the table and cried.

"…Mathieu?" Francis called hesitantly as Ukraine set the anesthesia mask in place. It didn't seem right that Canada was so quiet, so calm. It was more terrifying than the screams.

Hearing his former colonizer's voice, Matthew finally moved, leaning his head back to follow the sound. He opened his eyes.

Francis's heart broke. Matthew's eyes – his beautiful violet eyes, the same color as the last moments of a sunset, so familiar, so precious – were now gruesomely disfigured. One of them was bleeding. The other bore a hideous blue stain and had swollen so much that it hardly fit in its socket.

Arthur had chosen to remain with Alfred, but Francis could almost hear the savage curses that would spill from his foul mouth when he saw this monstrous affront. For once in his life, France wanted to do exactly the same.

"Francis?" Matthew croaked weakly, his voice echoing in the plastic mask. "Fr-Francis…?"

Though they were looking directly at him, Francis had no way of knowing if Matthew could actually see him with his ruined eyes. The older nation leaned as close as he could to his younger brother, running fingers through his hair soothingly and pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. _"Oui, mon cheri. _I am here. I have you, Mathieu."

Matthew sniveled, taking a deep breath of the anesthesia, which calmed him. Though he continued to pant, struggling against his own terror and pain, he managed to stop crying and steady his voice enough to ask. "Al…Alfred?"

"Safe," Francis assured. "Your brother is safe. He is well, as you are. You will see him when you wake once more, but for now, you must sleep…"

"No."

Matthew took another deep, shuddering breath, struggling against the effects of the gas that now filled his lungs. "Al…Al's sick…"

Francis's brow furled in confusion even as his throat tightened to hold in the tears. "What?"

"They made him sick, Francis!" Matthew pleaded, his voice desperate. "They put things in him. Awful things. They made him so sick. This wouldn't…couldn't have gotten rid of it all. You have to help him, please, please help him…"

"All right, all right!" Francis soothed, pressing a hand over the anesthesia mask to close the teen's mouth. "We will do everything we can, Mathieu, I swear to you. But right now, you cannot do this. You must rest."

Slowly, Matthew nodded in understanding. His tense body relaxed as he allowed the drug to take hold. "Francis?" he whispered with last few words. "Please don't leave me. Promise you won't go away."

"_Je promets, mon cheri. _Now sleep."

Satisfied, Matthew surrendered to the order and fell back into oblivion. Francis remained crouched over him, watching the tense muscles in his face relax and smooth into the bliss of sleep for a long while.

The operating staff, who had backed off when Canada woke just as they had with America, approached the scene with caution. Toris shifted from foot to foot nervously. "Um, France? He's not…Canada's not going to wake up again for a while. We…we can even work on his eyes and he won't even know. S-So, if you want to step outside for a while, we all understand…"

"_Non_," Francis said with determination. "I promised him that I would remain, and I shall do so without fail."

The Baltic brothers exchanged a glance, nervous and confused. Ivan shrugged his great shoulders. "If that is what you wish, comrade."

And the operation continued on.

**( - )**

They didn't bring Alfred back the next day, or the next, or the next.

The daily drawing of blood continued as normal, as did the children's makeshift lessons and Mengele's sickening façade of kindness. No numbers were called, but no 'specimens' were returned to the fold either.

Matthew, remembering the dire warnings from their first morning, despaired at the thought of ever seeing his brother again. By day, visions of his twin's suffering swam before his sightless eyes like a horrible movie real imported straight from his own personal hell. By night, he found some small salvation in the form of the ever-suffering Philippe. The two whose brothers had been stolen from them took comfort in each other's presence, with Philippe – who had been mute since the loss of Pietro – crawling into Matthew's bunk to hide from the monsters of their own memories.

After five long, agonizing days of nothing, Mengele appeared before them with a dour expression. The blood-taking that day was even swifter and more efficient than ever, as though his assistants themselves feared his ill-tempered wrath. Once the task was complete, he skimmed over the collective data, scribbled something on his assistant's clipboard, and shoved it into the lead SS Guard's hand.

Matthew heard the paper being torn from its pad and held his breath. Around him, the children squirmed nervously in anticipation of what was to come.

"The following subjects report immediately!" the guard snapped, and listed off three sets of numbers in rapid succession.

Philippe gasped and wrapped his arms around Matthew's waist. It took the teen a moment to realize why – his number had been called.

Heavy footsteps heralded the appearance of a shadow in Matthew's blurred vision as the black-suited SS guard approached them. Matthew slid back in his bunk, pressing his back against the wall and clinging to Philippe with both arms.

"No," he growled with all the ferocity of a threatened polar bear. "Stay away. You can't have him."

The guard chuckled at that, completely un-intimidated by the threats of a half -starved, mostly-blind prisoner of war. But Matthew was determined. These creatures – because they couldn't be human, they had to be beasts, demons, monsters of evil and greed like the ones that lurked in the darkest regions of untamed childhood – had already stolen away his Alfred. Matthew would damn himself to hell before he let them take the boy away, too.

Which was why, when the SS guard reached across the bed, Matthew not only grabbed his wrist before he could touch the child, but sank his teeth deep into flesh of the attacking arm.

The guard shouted in pain and yanked the limb back, leaving a chunk of cloth to flutter onto the bed in its wake. Everyone, including Mengele, was taken by surprise. Alfred had always been the louder of the teenage twins, talking back and mouthing off and protesting when the children were treated unfairly. No one had ever expected the quiet, reserved younger brother to react so violently.

Matthew spat a few threads from his mouth, sickened slightly at the taste of blood on his teeth. With a defensive hiss, he curled around the clinging Philippe again and glared in the general direction of the attackers. His inability to focus on them somehow made the gaze that much more haunting.

"I already told you," he snapped. "You can't have him!"

"Blasted Americans," Mengele growled under his breath. He did not know the difference between America and Canada and truly, he could care less. He glared at the two guards who remained by his side with a savage snarl. "Well? What are you waiting for? Fetch him!"

"Sir!"

The SS wasted all of five seconds saluting the doctor before they went on the offensive. The two descended on the bed from either side, one grabbing hold of Philippe, the other wrapping his arms around Matthew's shoulders.

Matthew snarled and struggled, striking out at any black shape that came close to him. He kicked one guard in the stomach, dropping him winded to the ground, and head butted the other so hard that he felt a rib snap under the force of his skull. All the while he kept his grip on Philippe, who clung to his neck like a koala. The other children watched, enraptured, holding their breaths and hiding under bed sheets until it was all over.

Finally, one of the guards came from behind with a baton and struck Matthew across the back of the head. The baton was made of soft wood and wasn't hard enough to knock the teen out completely, but it rattled his brain in his skull like the contents of a speed bag.

Matthew fell to the side, a flash of light eliminating what little sight he had for a few brief moments. Philippe cried out and was gone from his protector's arms.

"N-No!" Matthew groaned, his words slurring as he tried and failed to put his frazzled brain back together. "Give him back…!"

"How troublesome," Mengele sniffed, and took the struggling, crying child from the guard. "Which reminds me. Take care in transporting the other one in here. The last thing I need is for all that effort I put into extending my research to go to waste because that idiot tears open his stitches."

He turned to leave. Matthew heard the heavy steal toes of his boots scrape across the ground and pushed himself up to lung once more. His efforts earned him nothing but a punch in the gut, and he was deposited, unceremoniously, on of his bunk.

The heavy door slammed shut, and Matthew wept. He hated crying because it made him felt so weak and sickly and now itburned, but the tears forced themselves into existence despite his best efforts. It wasn't fair – God damn it all, it just wasn't _fair._

Five minutes of silence and sobs later, the heavy door opened and shut one more time. Matthew didn't bother to look up or even move, burying his head in his arms. But around him, the children gasped in surprise.

"Mister Alfred!" Anastasia gasped, vocalizing it first. "Mister Matthew, Mister Matthew, look! It's Mister Alfred!"

She ran across the room, her bare feet padding against the hard floor, as Alyshea stayed behind to shake Matthew by the shoulder and repeat her sister's joyous news. There was a pained groan that could almost be called good-natured. "Hey there, munchkin. Hanging in there?"

Matthew jerked his head up, startling Alyshea. That voice, it could only belong to one person. "Alfred!?"

"Mister Alfred, you don't look so good," Anastasia insisted, her voice filled with concern. "Let me help you."

"I'm okay," Alfred said, though he didn't sound like it. "You don't have to worry about me."

It took a long time for him to make his way over, his feet scraping against the ground and obviously being rubbed raw in the process. Finally, with a groan, he tumbled onto the bed next to Matthew and just lay there, as though he hadn't the energy to move.

Matthew scrambled around, feeling with his hands until he found his brother's body. The sheer amount of heat, radiating from his chest like the range of a stove, made the younger twin draw in a sharp breath.

"Jesus, Al, you're burning up," he gasped, running his hand across his brother's chest. His fingers stumbled on a series of rough, bumpy lines – rows of precise stitches, three of them, forming an "I" across Alfred's chest – and began to shake. "Oh god. Oh my _god_. What did he do to you?"

"I said 'm fine," Al insisted, and Matthew could hear the smile in his voice. "They can't do anything to me. How're your eyes doing, Mattie?"

Matthew opened his eyes and looked at the blob of light against the darkness that was his brother. Unsatisfied, he moved his hands to brush Alfred's face, tracing the familiar shape of his smile. There was something staining his lips, both dry and fresh – blood? "This is no time for that, Al. We have to take care of you."

"Mattie…" he felt Alfred frown, then fingers brushing over the aching wound on the back of his head. "You're bleeding, Mattie."

God, his voice sounded so weak, and he was so warm. Men and nations were never meant to get so warm, like a stove, like an iron, like the ovens. "Alfred, stop it. I'm serious."

"So am I," Alfred insisted with a muffled cough, a bit of something warm splashing against Matthew's hand. "We gotta get that patched up for you."

"God damn you, Al!" Matthew shouted, the burning tears coming to life once more. "Why is it the only time you don't think about yourself is when it actually matters?!"

He rubbed at his eyes painfully, knowing that his tears were full of dye and blood and staining the blankets they slept on, but he didn't care. Alfred shifted, his weight rolling around the mattress with a great creaking of rusty springs. Matthew expected strong, confident arms to wrap around him and pull him in for soothing words, but the elder twin just couldn't get up the strength.

"Mattie," Alfred said, as though he couldn't quite get a hold on the words. "Mattie, please don't cry. Please. It's all going to be okay."

"Okay?!" Matthew almost laughed at that. "How is this okay? How the hell is this ever going to be okay?!"

"Didn't you notice?" Alfred grinned and slipped his hand into the one that had been holding his cheek. "He's scared."

Matthew's forehead wrinkled in confusion. "Scared, who?"

"Mengele. He's freaking out. He's terrified." Alfred insisted, his voice growing animate. "I saw it. They thought I was too out of it to notice, dead or dying or something, but I saw. Everyone was freaking out, talking about bombings and evacuation plans and ripping stuff out of the walls like crazy. Do you know what that means?"

Matthew shook his head. With every word, Alfred's voice became stronger, but also more hysterical. Matthew wondered if the fever and torture had driven his twin insane.

"It means they're coming for us. Russian front's closing in to bite that bastard in the ass," Alfred laughed, rolling over so that his head was pillowed in his brother's lap. "Russia's coming, Mattie, he's coming to get us. Ivan's coming to get us and he's gonna take us home, he's gonna take us all home and shoot that bastard in the head and he's _scared!_"

Matthew sighed, stroking his twin's hair. "Wow, Al, that's…that'd be great."

"It _is_ gonna be great. It's gonna be awesome!" Alfred insisted, laughing out loud. "He's gonna come get us, and we're all going home, and then…then everything will be back to normal! It'll all go back to normal!"

"Alfred, please, you're getting hysterical."

"I'm not getting hysterical!" Alfred crowed, and dissolved into a painful fit of coughing.

In an instant, all the energy that had built up in his body dissolved away. The great hero curled into a fetal position in his brother's lap, hacking and choking so hard that his entire body shook with the force. A warm and sticky liquid burst from his mouth, splattering Matthew's shirt, and this time, there was no doubt that it was blood.

For the first time, Matthew was glad that he could not see.

Alyshea tugged at his sleeve from the side of the bed, pressing a wet rag into his hand. Matthew allowed himself of a small, kind smile that he did not truly feel.

"Thank you," he said, and used the rag to gently clean his suffering brother's face. "You're okay, Al. I've got you. I've…I've got you."

The coughing faded away soon enough, leaving a trembling, crying America in Canada's arms. He clung to Matthew's clothes like a child to the apron of its mother, a few desperate tears of pain mixing with the blood. They would be joined soon enough by the dye that polluted his own.

"They're coming for us, Mattie," Alfred said, his voice so soft it could barely be heard. "They're coming. We're all gonna be free. _Free._"

Matthew wiped his burning eyes on his sleeve and pulled his brother into an embrace. "Whatever you say, Al," he whispered. "Whatever you say."

_**TBC…**_


	7. Chapter 7

Ah ha ha ha, guess who gets scatterbrained after 10 pm? I uploaded this last night, then promptly forgot to actually put it, you know, in the story. Sorry.

_**Disclaimer: **__Still don't own. Still hate white space._

**Awakening**

**Chapter Seven**

"Sick, you say? I dare say I could figure that out for myself, Francis."

Francis bit his lip and sucked in a breath through his teeth. It was painful to see Alfred like this – burning red with fever, moaning in pain even in his unconscious state, twisting and writhing atop the water-cooled mattress on which he lay. Arthur sat at his bedside, tending to him as dutifully as he had during those first economic crisis's when America had been little more than a colony. He had two rags and two bowls beside him, one set filled with clear ice water, the other stained red with blood.

Alfred coughed miserably again, spitting up another mouthful of blood, which added to the stain on his pillowcase. Arthur sighed and gently cleaned it away with the red-stained cloth. "I suppose it's some small relief, though. At least we know that this is something he contracted before his heart stopped, instead of an infection from the operation."

"Indeed," Francis said, and gently patted Alfred's knee through the bedclothes. "His body, it should be rejecting the diseases, yes? If he did not contract them along with his people…"

"Yes. But that doesn't mean he won't suffer from it."

"_Oui."_

Alfred groaned again, the sound rattling deep in his throat. It ended in a whimpering little sob that sounded almost like his brother's name. Francis shuddered, glancing to the other side of the room, where Matthew lay. He was still so fresh from surgery that he couldn't have stirred at the call, but it was hard to tell – his eyes were now hidden behind the protective folds of gauzy white bandages.

"How long will this go on?"

"I don't know," Arthur admitted, as though the words shattered what little piece of his heart had managed to cling together. "Maybe hours. Maybe weeks. Maybe days. It's never been something so intense before."

Francis nodded absently as the things they both knew to be true were repeated. His eyes wandered through the room and finally came to Arthur's lap, where the hand he was not using rested. Said hand was clutching something small and made of wood. It brought a smile to Francis's face.

"A bit of your magic, _mon cher?_"

Arthur blushed and clutched the little wooden effigy tight in his fist. "It's an amulet. For health and protection."

"How thoughtful of you," Francis said, and he honestly meant the words.

Arthur sighed heavily again and glanced back at Alfred, who now lay quiet and still. He gripped the little trinket in his had a moment longer, whispering something under his breath – it may have been a prayer, or it may have been a spell, even he could not tell for sure. He leaned over his sleeping charge and pressed the figure into Alfred's hand, folding his strong fingers around it carefully.

"Stay strong, lad," he whispered. "Stay strong and stay with us. It will all be over soon."

**( - )**

Alfred dreamt of rescue.

He dreamt of a sunrise that heralded the arrival of the Soviet army from the northeast, their red banners dancing in against a Technicolor sky as they stalked their enemy like the wolves who ruled their snowy woods. The SS guards scattered in their wake like frightened rabbits, their order and discipline shattered by fear.

Some of the braver, nobler guards threw themselves at the advancing wall in a final burst of effort for their twisted, misguided cause. The rest, including Mengele, turned tail and ran, only to be cut off by the English and French forces advancing from the opposite side.

Alfred leapt from his bunk, empowered and healthy, snatching an abandoned gun to lead the charge from within. Matthew was at his side, violet eyes clear and vision restored. They took their rightful place alongside their allies, rallying the prisoners into revolt and glory of their own. From within, they broke down the menacing walls and shattered the wrought-iron gates to the sound of liberated, energized cheers.

Freed from their bunker, the children ran and played and laughed honestly for the first time in many long months. They clustered around Alfred and Matthew, clinging to them, calling them heroes, because that's what they were.

Philippe appeared from nowhere, giggling in Matthew's arms. Anastasia and Alyshea clung to Alfred's waist happily. Alfred laughed, exchanging a grin with his brother before turning back to the ruined gate. Arthur and Francis were there with Ivan, waiting for them, smiling. Alfred brandished the gun above his head and let out a victory yell.

Alfred dreamt this, and in his dreaming, he smiled. But when he woke, all that he knew was heat.

"Mah…Mattie?"

"Hush, Al," Matthew soothed, mopping the sweat from his brother's fevered brow. "I'm here."

Alfred didn't and couldn't know how long it had been since he had returned to the bunk. He remembered having his blood drawn three times, but Matthew insisted it had been at least five. Alfred had spent all of the time, however long it had been, fading in and out of consciousness with the highs and lows of his fever.

Now, he found himself half-curled in his brother's lap, his head pillowed against Matthew's chest. The sheet was wrapped around his body like a baby in a bundle, keeping him from trashing too much in his sleep. Matthew had a wet wag, one of many provided by the worried and frightened children, and was using it to keep his brother's face cool and clean.

Around them, the bunk was quiet. The children were huddled under their beds in silent fear. Outside, a siren roared through the camp like a living being, echoing from bunker to bunker.

"Another one?"

"Yeah," Matthew sighed. "Another one."

Alfred chuckled and, even with his rough and abused throat, it sounded quite maniacal. It made Matthew nervous, and he paused in his care cautiously. "Al?"

"They're scared."

"Of course they're scared," Matthew said, trying to be reasonable. "We're all scared. They're bombing us"

"That's not why _he's_ scared," Alfred continued, snuggling against his brother like a child to their mother. "He's scared because they're coming. They're coming for us."

"Alfred…"

"They're coming to get us."

"Alfred, _stop it!_"

Alfred did so, his jaw clanking together with a boney little click. He twisted out of his cuddle and looked up at his brother hesitantly. "Mattie?"

"Just stop it," Matthew insisted. He kept his eyes closed and turned his head away, not looking at his twin even if he couldn't see him. "Please, please stop it. You keep saying that, and you always seem to believe it, and then it just gets worse. _You_ get worse. Everything just keeps getting worse and worse and I just…you have to _stop_ it Al. Please."

Alfred's face fell and his bottom lip began to quiver like a child. "Matt…"

_BANG! _

The door burst open with more force than ever before, leaping off the wall when it smashed into it. Mengele stormed in, bristling with energy and accompanied by an entire platoon of guards.

"Get them out of here," he snapped without pleasantries, and the guards obeyed.

Unceremoniously, the children – all of them – were pulled from their various hiding places and herded out the door like a flock of sheep being led to a slaughter. Matthew still couldn't see but, when the butt of a guard's gun found its way into the small of his back, he got the hint and stumbled to his feet. He tried to wrap the sheet around Alfred, but the cloth was snatched away and the two were shoved out into the frozen January cold.

Alfred wobbled unsteadily, his bare feet scraping against the ground as his aching muscles protested. He sagged against Matthew for much –needed support, directing his brother into line with gentle prods and shooting the Nazi guards a dirty look every chance he got.

The bunch of twins – seven pairs of children, one abandoned straggler and the prisoners of war – were lined up along the side of their bunker, their backs shoved roughly against the cold tin walls.

Around them, the camp was falling apart. Slowly but surely, the soldiers that manned the area were pulling down the established buildings with demonic efficiency. On the far edge, the towering smokestacks that had, since the beginning, belched putrid smoke, were empty and silent. The factory that surrounded them was being dismantled brick by brick, the materials of which were spirited away by a row of massive dump trunks. As for the other prisoners, the few who weren't locked up in their barracks were being herded back into the crowded, disgusting boxcars that had brought them all here in the first places. And the ones who…weren't prisoners anymore…were piled in huge ditches across the camp. Several of the children began to cry in fear.

"Shut up!" Mengele snapped. The children choked on their sobs.

The doctor strutted in front of them like a drill sergeant assessing his troops. Occasionally he stopped, grabbed the arm of a subject and checked their number, cross-referencing it with the notes on his assistant's clipboard. For a long while, he worked in silence. No one dared to speak.

"These two," Mengele finally announced, pointing to a pair of dark-skinned gypsy boys. "And those girls as well. They come with us."

The SS saluted and plucked the chosen pairs from the line. Those on either side of the lucky – unlucky? – chosen ones huddled against each other in fear. Mengele passed over them with barely a glance, pausing for only a moment when he came to the almost full-grown prisoners of war he had tortured so readily from the moment of their arrival. His face was drawn and his hands were shaking slightly. His eyes darted around, unwilling to look directly at any of them, always drifting back to the sky.

Alfred smirked, even as his head sank against Matthew's neck. "What's the matter, doc? Nervous?"

Mengele twitched. With one hand, he attacked with a downward blow and struck Alfred across the cheek. Thrown from his brother's support, the American tumbled to the ground.

"Alfred!" Matthew gasped, and dropped to his knees to find his brother once more. Alfred was coughing so hard that it wasn't difficult in the least.

Mengele regarded them as scum on the bottom of his boot, his nose wrinkled in disgust. "Them," he barked to the SS. "Bring them too. Transfer the rest."

Matthew clung to Alfred protectively, keeping them together even as the guards hauled them both to their feet. Alfred's legs could barely hold his own weight, so he was left hanging half supported by his brother and half in the grip of the SS guard that was shoving them around. The American twisted around, trying to catch a glimpse of Alyshea and Anastasia amongst the children that were herded out of the sight, but they were spirited away before he could get a lock.

"Where…where are you taking them?" he demanded through his coughs. He lurched in the SS guard's grasp, nearly falling again, but Matthew tugged him back to his feet. Alfred glared at Mengele savagely. "Tell me where you're taking them. Just what do you think you're going to do to them, you bastard?"

"You don't have to worry about them anymore," Mengele said coldly. "I'd worry more about yourselves."

With that and a sniff, he turned his back on them and lead the way to his lab.

_**TBC…**_


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer: **__I still own nothing. _

**Awakening**

**Chapter Eight**

The examination room was bitterly cold, made even more so than the air outside by the chilling knowledge of what had gone on there. Of course, there was little evidence of it now – the place had been scrubbed so clean that the stench of ammonia and lye overpowered those of formaldehyde and rot.

Alfred and Matthew were lead – or rather, forced – into the back room, while the two smaller pairs were locked away in the front. Alfred tried to impart some small bit of comfort to the crying, frightened children, but wasn't given the time. There was never enough time.

As they were pushed down the hall, a flash of familiar auburn brown drew Alfred's eye to a side room. He lurched after it, startling both Matthew and the guard, and grabbed the side of the door to keep from falling. "Phili…?"

The word caught in his throat. It was Philippe, all right, but he wouldn't be responding to the call anytime soon.

This was the only room that still smelled of death.

It was finally too much. Alfred gagged, covering his mouth with his hand as the guard jerked him away from the door. The American shoved away just long enough to double over against the wall and vomit. A few sputtering mouthfuls of blood followed behind, accentuating a final keening whimper.

"Alfred?" Matthew called worriedly as the guard backed away in disgust. "Alfred, what is it? What's wrong?"

Alfred coughed once more, the acidic sting of bile washed away by the coppery taste of blood. He wiped his lip on his sleeve and sighed. "It's nothing, Matt. Just feeling a…a bit ill."

Matthew's brow creased and he opened his mouth, but was cut off by Mengele appearing from the door behind them. He snarled at the smell of vomit and shot the SS guard a glare. "Move. Now."

The guard yanked Alfred to his feet and threw him at Matthew. His partner jabbed the butt of his gun into their backs before they had the chance to get their footing. Matthew held onto Alfred's arm with both hands, jerking at every sound. Alfred tried, at the very least, to act as his blind brother's guide.

At the end of the hallway, none of it mattered.

The moment the heavy door was sealed behind them, the twins were pulled apart. Matthew dug his nails into Alfred's sleeve desperately, but the thin fabric soon gave way, leaving him with nothing but a fistful of cloth. "Alfred!"

"I'm still here, Mattie!" Alfred called even as he was forced onto the operating table. "I'm right here! I'm not going anywhere! Just _stay calm!_"

The whimper that escaped Matthew's throat told Al that he didn't believe the words, but he allowed himself to be strapped to the cold marble table. Alfred didn't have much of a choice – the diseases that wracked his body had eaten away at his strength, and he couldn't have fought the guards off if he had tried.

Mengele glared down at the elder twin with a sour expression, snapping a plastic glove into place. It was smooth against Alfred's chin as the doctor pulled his mouth open with his thumb. "Still breathing, I see. What a disappointment."

Alfred yanked his head away. He clenched his teeth and took several deep breaths through his nose, trying to force his racing heart to calm. It wasn't easy, with the way the memories kept bubbling to the surface. Scalpels slicing through his flesh with the shriek of metal against bone. Hours of immobility and numbness followed by steadily growing pain as the sedative began to wear off. The horrible sensation of his heart beating in the cold, open air…

"And this one is an absolute failure," Mengele sniffed, holding Matthew's injection-scarred eye open with his fingers. He prodded the exposed lens with one finger, ignoring the keening cries the action drew from his patient. "No change whatsoever, the dye just washes right out. Really, you'd think it would be simple matter…"

"Get the hell away from him!"

Mengele growled, annoyed that his note-taking had been interrupted. Alfred was glaring at him, his head turned until one ear was pressed against the cold marble so that he could see the "good doctor" clearly. Mengele barely spared him a glance.

Instead, the doctor turned to his assistants and snapped orders so quickly that neither Alfred nor Matthew could understand him. They seemed to be waiting for the order, as they instantly produced a number of vials and syringes that had already been prepared.

Alfred growled, muffling the urge he had to cough, and spoke to Mengele in savage German. "You're a coward, you know that?"

The doctor observed him with cold, dark eyes, heaving a sigh like a parent losing his patience. Alfred continued without restraint. "That's all you've ever been, a coward and a bully. You pick on people who can't fight back, flaunt your power over helpless children, all for your own sick pleasure. And now you're running away. You know they're coming for you, so you're just gonna turn tail and run, like some scared little dog."

"Alfred," Matthew said hesitantly, swallowing his fear. "Don't."

"You think I do this for my own sake?" Mengele queried rhetorically, pushing a long syringe into a tall vial of clear, sweet-smelling liquid. "You truly are fool. Everything I've done here is for the sake of science."

"Fucking _liar_."

Mengele just observed him once more, as though Alfred were at the end of a microscope. He set the vial aside and checked the long needle to make sure it was still straight and sharp, then stepped away from Alfred's side. The American twisted his head after him and saw red when Mengele moved to his brother's slab. "I told you to stay away from him!"

"You're in no position to be making demands," Mengele said coolly, and brought the long needle down.

He did not insert it directly, as had been expected, but instead dipped in for an almost horizontal entry through Matthew's chest. With one hand, he felt out the faint trace of bone along Matthew's half-starved frame and carefully inserted the needle between two of his ribs.

Matthew clenched his teeth, muffling an agonized groan as the needle pushed through his flesh. Alfred jerked uselessly at the belts that held him. "Mattie? Mattie, what's he doing? Matt!"

"I…I don't know," Matthew said, his voice shaking. "Alfred…"

Mengele pushed the plunger down with his thumb, injecting the chemical.

Matthew gasped as the burning liquid entered his body. A moment later, a pained groan crawled from his throat. "Al…_Al…_"

Something ice-cold and bitter shot through Alfred's veins. He shuddered, struck by the sudden feeling that a part of his being had been torn from its rightful place. "Mattie?"

His brother did not answer.

"Mattie?" Alfred tried again, each call becoming gradually more and more desperate. "Are you all right? Say something, Matt. Tell me what he did to you."

There was no response. Mengele smirked and began to fill the syringe again. Panic gripped Alfred's chest. He struggled against his bonds and began to cough again.

"Matt. _Mattie_. Answer me, please. Matthew!" Alfred choked on his brother's name. He jerked his head around and stared at Mengele with wild eyes. "What did you do to him? You bastard, what the fuck did you do to him? You son of a bitch!"

"You know, I was hoping to see you expire on your own," Mengele said as though Alfred had never spoken, as though they were just having a normal conversation. "It would have been remarkably informative to see the eventual extent of the damage. But I suppose it can't be helped. We simply ran out of time."

"You want time, you fucking son of a bitch!?" Alfred raged. "When I get my hands on you, I'll make it a fucking eternity! Mattie! Matthew!"

"Always so loud," Mengele sighed, and inserted the needle into Alfred's heart.

A pool of blood welled up in Alfred's throat and stuck there. He choked again, but it was weak and couldn't quite force out the liquid. He felt his heart literally leap in his chest, slamming violently against his ribcage, strangled by the poison it had been filled with.

With the last bit of his strength, Alfred managed one last desperate call: "Mat…tie…"

A few small shocks racked his body. Inevitably, his heart came to a stop.

Alfred Jones knew no more.

_**TBC…**_


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer: **__I still own nothing. One more chapter after this!_

**Awakening**

**Chapter Nine**

Alfred Jones woke.

It took him a little while to that out. The ceiling above him was bright white and slightly blurry without his glasses to bring it into focus, a fact that the dimmed neon bulbs did nothing to rectify. He felt warm and secure, tucked into snug little bed as though it had been made up around him. His head rested on a pillow that was not exactly soft, but not exactly hard either. He would have been quite comfortable, had it not been for the tube that was shoved halfway down his throat.

He gagged, wiggling his hand free from the warm, starched sheets. His limb felt heavy and his joints ached in protest, but he managed to pull it loose. Grasping the edge of the tube, he forced his throat to open until he could draw the device out of his body.

With a cough, he set the horrid piece of vital life support to the side and looked around the blurry room. Some part in the back of his cotton-filled mind reported that the feeding tube, overwhelming smell of antiseptic and presence far too much white indicated that he was in a hospital. There was no reason for him to disagree.

Alfred turned his head and suddenly became aware of a figure slumped in the chair beside his bed. He jumped a foot and recoiled before his brain-scouts had time to report two very important realizations: one, the other person was fast asleep, and two, he knew those eyebrows.

_Arthur._

Alfred tried to speak his former caretaker's name, but his throat was so dry that the words refused to form no matter what he tried. He swallowed, licked his lips and tried again, but still it wouldn't come. Finally, he gave up.

With a sigh, he rolled his head around to the other side to get a better idea of his situation. The bed was raised just enough that his back wouldn't get stiff from lying flat, so he could see most of the room without ever lifting his head from the pillow. It was unbearably white, but the smooth touch of clean sheets and clean clothes against his finally clean skin made it feel a little like heaven.

He was surrounded, of course, by a number of machines – most of them were attached to him with various wires, needles and nodes. One in particular, his heart monitor, beeped softly in his ear. It was bound to get annoying fairly quickly, he knew, but for now the sound was comforting. It reminded him that he was, in fact, alive.

Slowly, Alfred rolled his head away from Arthur and made his way to the other side of the room. What he saw there made his heart monitor race wildly.

Matthew lay in an identical bed beside him, close enough that Alfred could see some of the details of his face. His eyes were hidden behind a layer of white gauze and he was hooked up to a number of machines just as Alfred was. He wasn't moving.

Alfred jerked straight up, pulling a few of the more sensitive nodes loose. He yanked the needles out of his arm without care for the damage it caused him and threw the blankets to the floor. As he leapt out of bed, the rest of the wires snapped away, and the heart monitor instantly flat-lined.

Arthur burst awake with a yelp. "Bloody hell!"

"Mattie!" Alfred gasped, the name bursting from his parched throat like a burst of wind blowing through a bag of flour. He only took two steps before his aching legs gave out from under him, but it was enough to let him collapse onto his brother's bed.

Matthew started when Alfred landed on him, sitting up. "The hell?"

"_Mon dieu!" _gasped Francis from the other side of the bed, but Alfred paid him no mind.

"Mattie, _Mattie_," Alfred gasped, groping for his twin's hands as though he could hardly believe his own eyes. "Oh, god, Matthew…"

"Alfred?" Matthew queried, bewildered. He tugged a hand out of his desperate brother's grasp and lifted it to his face, studying the contours of Alfred's cheeks, mouth, forehead and nose. Finding them familiar brought a smile to his face. "You're awake."

Alfred grabbed his twin by the shoulders. "God, Mattie, your eyes…"

"They're fine, Al," Matthew soothed, holding his brother's face in his hands. "It's going to be fine, really. These bandages come off tomorrow, and they say I'll have to wear an eye patch for a while after that, but they're going to be fine."

Alfred sniffled and a few tears began to trickle down his cheeks. Matthew smiled softly, wiping the warm streams away with his fingers. Alfred closed his eyes, gripped his brother's shoulders tightly, and composed himself enough to ask, "How?"

"Surgery. Lots of it. _Real_ surgery, with real doctors. Or…well, you know how it is."

"When?"

"Alfred, you've been asleep for almost a week," Matthew said, and bit his lip. "We couldn't get you up no matter what we tried. And with the fevers and the nightmares and…we've all been so worried about you, Al. Thank god you're okay."

Alfred just stared at Matthew for a moment, dumbfounded, unable to understand what he was being told. His lower lip quibbled, and the tears began to pour. "Mattie, you…you're _alive_."

"Yes, Al, I'm alive."

Alfred threw his arms around Matthew's shoulders and dragged him in for a desperate hug. Matthew hinged his elbows around his brother's neck and pet his hair, whispering assurances of security. Francis sighed, leaning back in his little plastic chair with a smile.

"Bloody hell," Arthur sighed, coming to ruffle Alfred's hair. "Scare us all to death, why don't you? Jumping out of bed, causing all this commotion…really, boy, what were you thinking?"

His words were a reprimand, but the crack in his voice betrayed his relief. Alfred pulled away from Matthew just long enough to hook his arm around Arthur's neck and dragged him into the embrace as well. Arthur squawked and struggled, but there was no real strength in it. Soon enough, Francis joined in as well, wrapping his arms around all three of them.

"My goodness, what is going on in here?" Toris gasped as he bustled in the door, clutching a clipboard close to his chest. "Someone steps out of the room for five minutes and – Mr. America!"

Alfred lifted his head when his name was called, but Arthur dragged him back before he could go too far. "Go away, Lithuania," the Brit called, patting his former charge on the head. "You've done enough. We'll take care of him from here."

The Baltic nation faltered. "But…"

"Leave them be."

Toris jumped a foot and bristled like a cat when Ivan's hand landed on his shoulder. The Russian who, like the rest of the 'medical staff' who were conscious at this odd hour of the morning, had been summoned by the alarm of Alfred's disconnected heart monitor, smiled in a way that was thankfully nothing like his normal grin of insanity.

"This is a time for family, da?" Ivan said with an oddly gentle tone.

Toris swallowed hard and trembled under Ivan's hand. "I-If you say so."

"I do say so. Now come along."

With a slight gulp, Lithuania stepped out of the room in Ivan's wake, letting the door swing shut behind him. Back in the middle of their little huddle, Alfred made a mental note to check on his old friend later, just to make sure that everything was all right, but it was mostly reflex. Everyone in the room could hear Ivan's tone and knew that he was still sane, at least for now.

For now. That was what matter. For now, Alfred was awake, he was healthy and safe and comforted in the arms of his brothers. For now, Matthew was blind, but his eyes were healing and soon his sight would be restored. For now, the memory of their torture was forgotten.

For now, the nightmare had finally come to an end.

_**To Be Concluded…**_


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer: **__It is still not mine. Please enjoy the final chapter!_

**Awakening**

**Chapter Ten**

October 1st, 1946 – one year after the end of the war, the Nuremburg-based Trial of Major War Criminals comes to an end.

Matthew had attended the last day of the proceedings, not because he wanted to, but because it only seemed appropriate for the allies to be there.

Ludwig had been understandably horrified to discover what the men he had trusted with his people and his government had been doing behind his back. He had apologized profusely to anyone and everyone who would listen to him, though the ones who accepted his words had never truly blamed him and the ones who truly needed the apology refused to accept it.

Though Alfred had accepted with his usual smile. Matthew as well, though it was doubtful that Ludwig knew the extent to which they had suffered personally. It was no secret that they had been taken prisoner along with the platoons they accompanied, but what happened after was kept so quiet that even China did not know. The ID numbers that stained their skin had been painstakingly removed, and only visible trace of their torture – the eye patch that Matthew wore for three weeks after his bandages were removed – had been easily explained as a battle wound.

Still, the remnants of their month in hell lingered on. In truth, observing the trials in Nuremburg was the last place on Earth that Matthew wanted to be, because the person who belonged on that stand more than anyone, the man who deserved to be locked away to rot until the end of eternity, the one who had butchered them and hundreds of other innocents, was nowhere to be found.

That night, Matthew burst awake with the sound of that man's condescending laughter echoing in his ears. In the shadows of his lonely hotel room, he could see the flickering form of a white lab coat, the wings of the angel of death, dictating who among the masses would live, who would die and who would suffer personally at his hands. Matthew was crying, as though his eyes wanted to prove that they could and that his tears ran clear, just as nature had intended.

He used the sheets to rub his face clean and sat there a moment, trying to slow his panicked breathing. Beside him, Kumajiro rolled over and sleepily rubbed at his face with his paws as though to say, _"Oh, not this again."_

There was a knock at the door. He knew it was Alfred before he even stepped out of bed.

His American brother stood barefoot on the plush carpet with a bed sheet wrapped around him, clinging to a pillow so tightly its feathers were sticking out. Others had seen him like this before, when a horror movie had driven him out of his own bed and into another's. But no one, except for Matthew, had ever seen the unadulterated terror now reflected in those sky-blue eyes.

Matthew sighed, his heart still racing in his chest. "Nightmare," he said. It wasn't a question.

"You too," said Alfred with equal confidence.

Matthew nodded and stepped back, rubbing a sore crick out of his neck. "C'mon."

Alfred did so, hovering beside Matthew while the northern brother locked the door. With shaking hands, America sealed the chain lock in the same moment that Canada's deadbolt slid into place. Night terrors made him paranoid. Matthew understood.

They went to bed, Matthew scooping Kumajiro into his arms to make room for Alfred. The polar bear squirmed a little in protest, but soon found a comforting bit of warm against his master's chest and drifted off once more. Matthew snuggled deep into the warm fur of his oldest friend and turned his back on his twin.

Alfred slid up behind Matthew, folded his arms around his twin's waist and pulled him flush against his chest. He was still shaking. A few muffled sobs ghosted over the shell of Matthew's ear. Matthew took his brother's hand and gave it a light, comforting squeezing.

Though they were twins, they had not been born as humans were and had thus never shared a womb. This was, at least in Matthew's mind, as close to the experience as they were ever likely to get. They were safe here, wrapped in the blankets an each other's warmth, secure and protected from the cold world outside and the dangerous memories lurking within the shadows. Even if it was only temporary, just for this moment, this night…it was what they needed to get through it all.

"Love you, Mattie," Alfred said softly, his voice full of protective brotherly affection.

Matthew smiled in the dark. "Love you too, Al."

Satisfied with the mutual affirmation, the two brothers fell asleep and did not wake again for the rest of the night.

**( - )**

Almost a decade later, the brothers were together again for a meeting of nations, this time at the United Nations headquarters in New York.

America was ridiculously proud of this building, and had been ever since it opened at the beginning of the decade. It was one of many crown jewels in what could only be called his most impressive city and, even though most nations had already seen them all twice, he was determined to show them all off as much as he possibly could. And, thanks to an argument with England earlier that day, Matthew was the only one willing to indulge him.

Matthew didn't really mind, though. It was nice to spend a little quality time with his twin. The night scares that had plagued them since their time in Auschwitz had gradually diminished over the years, to the point where it had been almost eighteen months since either had experienced one. They didn't speak of the incident anymore. It was behind them.

After the meeting, Alfred started off his "grand tour" with a stop by his favorite pizza restaurant, the place that made, in his words, "the best pizza in the world."

"The Italys would be heartbroken to hear you say that, you know," Matthew mentioned as they walked, side-by-side, down the glistening New York streets.

"Aw, Feliciano's cool with it," America said without even the slightest regard for the grumpy elder Italian brother. "'Sides, he knows I mean my kinda pizza, not his weird kind."

"He'd probably say that your kind's the weird one, Al…"

"Mister Alfred?"

The twins stopped and turned back in mid-step. The one who had called to them was a young woman with dark skin, dark eyes and long, dark hair, who had been leaning against the wall of a little boutique as they passed by. She wore long sleeves despite the hot weather and was staring at them as though she'd just seen a ghost.

"Mister…Mister Matthew?" she ventured again, as though she couldn't believe she was saying these words. "Is it really you?"

Al and Matt exchanged a confused glance. Matthew cleared his throat. "Well…yes. That's our names. Why?"

"Oh my god. It really _is_ you!" the woman practically squealed out loud. Before they could say anything more, she yanked open the door to the boutique and shouted inside. "Sister! Sister, come here, you're not going to believe this!"

"What? Anna…! What the hell?!" yelped her sister as she was dragged out by the arm. The two young ladies were practically mirror images of one another, all except for their hair – the second girl's was cut short – and the eye patch that covered the second sister's left eye.

Alfred and Matthew recognized them in the same moment. "Anastasia!"

"Alyshea!"

Anastasia, the first sister, squealed happily and launched herself at Alfred. She threw her arms around his shoulders with so much force that he spun all the way around on the momentum of her hug. Alyshea, always the calmer and more refined of the sisters, approached Matthew with a smile on her face.

"The managed to fix yours, I see," she said, brushing a hand over her eye patch.

Subconsciously, Matthew ran a hand along his eyebrow, remembering the pain, the weeks of darkness, the dye-filled tears…He shook himself. "I…yes."

Alyshea's smile held neither jealous nor animosity as she reached out to take Matthew's hand in both of her own. "I'm glad."

In Alfred's arms, Anastasia giggled. Her sleeve slid up a bit to reveal part of the number tattoo on her arm, but she paid it very little mind. "I just can't believe it," she sighed, holding on tightly. "After all this time…We never thought we'd see you again. We thought you were dead for sure."

"Well," Alfred trailed off, thinking up and excuse, and patted her back. "We might have been. It was a close call."

He lowered Anastasia to her feet and took a good look at the little girls who were smiling up at them like long-lost cousins. They had filled out significantly and looked sturdier and stronger than those weeks in captivity – probably because they were actually healthy now. And happy.

"You girls look great," he said honestly. "Are you living here now?"

"Yes!" Anastasia piped, grabbing her sister's arm. "We got adopted by some really nice people right after the war ended. They're the ones who run this boutique. Isn't that right, sis?"

"Mother runs it," Alyshea agreed calmly, spreading her arms to show off the hand-sewn shirt she wore. "She made these clothes, too. They've been quite good to us."

"That's great," Matthew said, glad that at least some of the children who had suffered so horribly had been allowed to live happily after their pains.

"Yeah, totally awesome," Alfred echoed, clapping his brother on the shoulder enthusiastically. "And hey, Mattie and I are gonna be in town for a couple more days. We ought to get together sometime, have some lunch, catch up, the whole nine yards."

Anastasia's eyes sparkled and her grin widened. "Sounds perfect!"

Alyshea nodded her own quiet assent, but made a thoughtful humming noise in the back of her throat. "It seems strange to me, though."

"What's that?"

"I could have sworn that you two were much older than us."

Alfred and Matthew froze, exchanging a quick, secret and slightly panicked glance.

"Well, we were little," Anastasia reasoned with a shrug. "Everybody was scared, and there weren't any adults around. It kinda makes sense that we'd remember them being slightly older than they actually were. They – I mean, you guys – kinda acted like big brothers for everybody else in the bunk, after all."

Matthew winced at that, thinking of poor little Philippe and all the other children who died under their 'protection.' They really hadn't been able to save anyone, in the end. All they could do was watch as the mad doctor wrecked havoc on everyone and everything…

"You know, we never got to thank you," Anastasia continued, her expression suddenly shy and withdrawn. "For being there, I mean. You're the reason we got out of there alive."

Matthew blinked in surprise. He glanced at Alfred again, but found his brother was as baffled as he. "I don't understand."

"We'd just about given up hope," Anastasia started, taking her sister's hand.

"We thought we'd never get out of there," Alyshea continued, giving it a squeeze. "We were ready to die."

"But then you two came," they said together, and their smiles beamed.

"You weren't like everybody else."

"Yeah, you still had hope. And that made all the difference in the end, you know?"

"We figured, if our 'big brothers' could keep fighting like that, then…well, we could too. And that's the only reason we survived."

They paused then, took a deep breath , bowed and finished together. "So…thank you. For everything."

Matthew stared at them, shocked into silence. The picture was starting to become blurry on the edges, and he realized that he was tearing up again, on the verge of tears. Quickly, he wiped them on his sleeve and glanced to his brother.

Alfred was smiling the honest, breathtaking smile of a hero. His arms were shaking in anticipation. He wanted to give the girls another hug.

A few seconds later, that's exactly what he did.

**Final Notes: **Of the 3,000 twins who were pulled from the lines in Auschwitz, only about 200 survived long enough to be liberated. Those who managed to continue living afterwards mostly made their way to Israel or the United States.

Thank you everyone for your support in writing this story. I apologize if the very end seemed a little sudden, but, really…I think it worked. I hope that everyone else is satisfied as well – the most I can hope for is doing this history justice.


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